


Vox Parva

by NervousAsexual



Series: Whumptober 2020 [24]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Broken Bones, Burns, Corvo is dyslexic, For reasons, Grief/Mourning, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Mute Corvo Attano, Pre-Dishonored 2 (Video Game), Queerplatonic Relationships, Sign Language, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: It takes Corvo a long, long time to find his voice again.
Relationships: Corvo Attano & Emily Kaldwin, Corvo Attano/Samuel Beechworth
Series: Whumptober 2020 [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960987
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Muffled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/906516) by [deliciouspineapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciouspineapple/pseuds/deliciouspineapple). 



> Whumptober prompt #24--forced silence

It takes Corvo a long, long time to find his voice again.

Like everything else, it was stolen from him by Hiram Burrows. Six months after Emily was taken and Jessamine was murdered--six months give or take; he had no way to be sure in Coldridge--when weeks of burns and cuts and bruises failed to accomplish what the high regent wanted, he had the royal interrogator break Corvo’s jaw.

At the moment he’d been sure he was dying. Sullivan struck him with a heavy, still-searing poker, so hard it snapped his head past the confines of the interrogation chair and for a moment Corvo was certain his neck was broken.

“It doesn’t need to be this difficult,” Hiram complained as Corvo gingerly moved his head back to rest against the chair. “You only have to sign the confession. Surely even a Serkonan can write his own name, can’t he?”

His eyes drifted up to the words above the desk.  _ Order will prevail. _ Not justice. Only order.

Hiram and Campbell exchanged words but Corvo was past the point of listening for clues. He lay his head back and waited, as he always did, for this to be over.

He heard the voices rise and fall--arguing. Someone took hold of his jaw and he felt the break sharply, there, directly below his cheekbone. The hand fumbled with his jaw, pushed at his chin. Trying to break it further?

But as he was trying to recover a thick, gloved finger--Sullivan’s--shoved into his mouth and pried open his jaw, break and all. He struggled to avoid giving them the satisfaction of a gasp or a cry. His head was forced back. With stiffened fingers he traced the sharp edges of the arms of the chair. He stared up through the fog at the men above him and waited for their next move.

It wasn’t Burrows or Campbell who sullied their hands. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. He should have been prepared when the royal interrogator shoved the burning coal into his mouth and forced his jaws closed.

But he wasn’t ready, and Corvo screamed.

He jerked his head in any direction he could but Sullivan clamped an arm around his head and held him immobile. For the briefest moment he could taste the fire, sharp and piercing and unstoppable, and then he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t taste, was moved beyond feeling. The only sensation was the smell of burning flesh.

“That’s enough,” Campbell said from somewhere beyond him.

The hands released him and his jaw went slack. The coal fell from his mouth down to his lap. He sobbed.

“Well?” Hiram asked. “Are you ready to sign yet?”

The coal burned at his legs but Corvo could hardly feel it. He hunched over himself and stared at the ashes and blood and bits of burnt flesh that dribbled down onto his legs.

He was dimly aware of someone grabbing a handful of his matted hair, yanking his head back. Hiram made a disgusted scoffing noise.

“He’s not going to sign anything in this condition,” he said. His voice throbbed in Corvo’s head.

“It isn’t that important. Everyone already knows he’s guilty.”

Hiram sighed and turned his back to the Overseer. “Take him to his cell.” His eyes held on Corvo’s as the interrogator unfastened his bonds. “Goodbye, Corvo.”

For a long time he lay on his side where they dropped him, watching the rats scurry back and forth across his cell. He was in too much pain to sleep, and too badly wounded to do anything else.

As he was lying there in the place in between, he heard the rattle of the key in the cell door. From where he could just see the guard step in. His vision was still too blurred to recognize the guard by the shape of him outlined against the light.

“You should try to eat, Corvo.”

He recognized the voice--Watch Officer Thorpe. He could still feel the break in his jaw and the burns in his mouth. He would have thought word would have spread in the watch already.

Thorpe put a plate down on the floor.

“It’s from a friend,” he said, and looked at him for a moment before heading back out to the yard.

After six months in Coldridge Corvo doubted very much that he still had friends, but the thought of Emily still out there alone drove him to slip off the stone bed to check the cell door.

It was locked and latched. He leaned against the bars of the cell and looked down at what Thorpe had brought, a small loaf of slightly stale bread. Yesterday he would have eaten it. He’d had no food in days. But now he knew he couldn’t eat, and the pain had taken away his appetite regardless.

In his distraction he almost missed the message beneath the bread. He might have gone to his execution if one of the rats hadn’t approached, perhaps thinking he was already dead, and tried to haul the bread away. Beneath the loaf was a key.

Without thinking he took the key and hid it in his hand. If the guards saw he would be punished, regardless of his own involvement. Beneath the key was a note. He let the rat have its prize and with sore shaking fingers traced the words on the page

_ Corvo, _

_ Who we are is irrelevant right now. Just know that we have faith in you. _

_ Here is the key to your cell. Once you’re out, head for the prison’s Interrogation Room. Take the explosive there and plant it on the outer door. When the bomb goes off, run. Make for the river and lose yourself in the sewers. You’ll find some useful gear stashed there. _

_ One of the prison guards will leave a weapon just outside your cell. _

_ And good luck. We need you alive and well for what’s to come. _

_ \--A friend _

He wanted to read it again--words were difficult even during the good times--but he knew there wasn’t time. When he pressed his forehead to the bars of the cell he could just make out a city watch sword lying on the guards’ table.

With shaking hands he turned the key in the lock. The cell door swung easily--silently--open.

He crept over to the table where the sword waited. The floor seemed to buckle under him and his head pounded. Two guards conversed out in the hall, and a third watched them bicker idly. He took the sword in his hands. Its weight was similar to the other blades he’d wielded over the years, but after six months of imprisonment it felt like trying to arm himself with a battleaxe. He could hardly walk, let alone engage in any kind of swordplay.

Gently, reluctantly, he put the sword back. Better to move as silently as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

He asks for no help. He does not want to be pitied or viewed as disabled. His voice is not necessary to do his job. Emily has helped tremendously, decreeing that the guard should know at least basic signs. He’s well aware that this was seen as pandering--the empress instituting laws simply because of the one man who has her favor; he is guilty of this thought as well--but he has to admit it is a sound tactical choice.

The first words he tried to speak were ten years from the second. He emerged from the sewer below Coldridge exhausted, unsure that he could go much further, and when his eyes adjusted to the light he saw the old man waiting at the shoreline. A boat was at the ready beside him. Corvo was so delirious he could hardly feel the pain anymore, and he stopped to stare.

“Corvo!” the man called. “Over here!”

It could have been a trap. He realized that. But he was through. He couldn’t run anymore. Whatever happened now was out of his control. He stumbled down to the shore.

“I’m a friend,” the old man said. Corvo didn’t know whether to believe him or not. “My name’s Samuel, and I work for some good people who want very much to meet you. I’ll take you to meet them when you’re ready. Just down the river a ways.”

He barely understood what was being said but nodded anyway. Anything to get out of here.

As he tried to climb into the boat the old man--Samuel--helped him, a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he tried to say, and the pain that accompanied the rough sounds from his mouth brought tears to his eyes.

Samuel said nothing and sat him down in the back of the boat. He bent double and let his head hang down toward his knees. The boat lurched out onto the open waters.

All the sunlight was torture on his eyes and everything came flooding back. The burns, the broken bones, everything. Part of him couldn’t believe he’d managed to bring himself through the sewers. Maybe in reality he was still lying in his cell and all of this was just the last shocky dreams of a dying man.

Something warm covered his back and shoulders, and through bleary eyes he saw that a piece of flannel, dyed black, had been put over him. Samuel was already leaning back against the boat, looking out over the water.

“Feel free to stretch out if you need to,” he said. “I’ve done my share of sleeping on the water. It’s not as tough as it sounds.”

Six months ago Corvo was sleeping on the water. But the difference…

The next thing he knew Samuel was shaking him awake.

“Nearly there, Corvo,” he said.

He couldn’t remember lying down, yet here he was, curled on the wood boards near Samuel’s feet. His head pounded wildly as he sat up, pulling the flannel around his shoulders. His hand brushed something scratchy--a battered welcome mat lay bunched beside him. He leaned back against the seat and followed Samuel’s gaze up to the waiting dock. A massive structure rose up behind it.

“The Hound Pits Pub,” Samuel said. “Right under the regent’s nose, and he don’t even know. All Admiral Havelock’s idea. If anybody can get young Lady Emily back and on the throne, it’s him.”

For a moment he dared to rest his head against the side of the boat and take in the place. It seemed pretty lifeless, not a soul to be seen anywhere. Corvo’s instinct was a fear of ambush--a place that seemed quiet and safe usually had more going on beneath the surface. It occurred to him to wonder if this was all some elaborate set-up by Burrows. Maybe all this could lead to was a more public execution. But he couldn’t think what Burrows would gain by this.

A rogue wave jostled the boat as it came in along the dock, tossing him against the boatman.

“Easy there.” Samuel straightened him back out again, and despite his training Corvo doubted that this man would willingly lead him into a trap. “Admiral’ll be waiting for you inside.”

Samuel helped him up onto the dock and he tottered on his feet, dizzy, sore, his burns prickling at him. He looked up at the pub and wondered if Samuel would show him the way.

As if he could hear his thoughts Samuel spoke. “They’ll want to talk to you. Don’t really need me.”

So Corvo limped up into the yard, past a pile of broken boats, past a tower standing alone and locked up tight. He stopped against the door to catch his breath. The place looked more like a lord’s estate than a pub.

The door was opened for him.

“Ah,” a voice, strong and commanding, said. It rang painfully in his skull. “Here’s the man of the hour.”

He looked up to a man in officer’s trappings beaming down at him. The man’s mouth moved as if speaking, but Corvo, his head spinning, could not make out the words.

Rather than let the man--what had Samuel said his name was?--speak without accomplishing anything, Corvo put a hand on the man’s chest. The vibrations of speech stopped immediately, and the man looked down at him in surprise.

Corvo put his hand to his mouth. Others appeared over the man’s shoulders, a scrawny nobility type and a woman dressed in black… and Corvo gingerly opened his mouth to show them why he could not answer.

“Oh,” the admiral said. “ _ Oh. _ ”

The nobleman looked sick to his stomach, but it was Corvo whose legs buckled beneath him.


	3. Chapter 3

He has gotten along for years without speaking. He resents being thought of as somehow broken. The silence is as much a part of him now as the Outsider’s mark and the creak in his joints.

And yet he wants… Maybe it’s the result of a decade of people looking at him as disabled, but he still wants.

The loyalists were introduced to him one by one, parading through the breezy attic that was to be his. Havelock, the former admiral, who gave up his commission for this. Pendleton, who joined though his own brothers stood with Burrows. A very young woman in laborer’s clothes, who wandered in once when Corvo was half-awake, saw him lying in the bed against the wall, and high-tailed it out of there.

The one he saw most often was the tinkerer, Piero, who turned up daily with new elixirs and remedies. His creations eased the worst of the pain, even if they also left Corvo exhausted.

There were dreams, vivid dreams, some about Jessamine and some about Emily.

And there was a dream of the Outsider.

The mark on his hand glowed in the dark. A gift, the man in his dream had said. It left an itch, but he ignored it as best he could. The other gift was harder to ignore--a human heart that spoke in a voice he knew.

It whispered to him, “Their fate rests on your effort. On the strength of your hands, and of your heart.”

Corvo did not feel strong. He had failed Jessamine and Emily.

When he wasn’t sleeping the Heart was his company. It told him things  _ she _ could never have known: a lost brother, only a child, whom Havelock loved; the anger that boiled inside Pendleton, the dreams Callista kept hidden. When he was finally on his feet again he walked beside the river and listened to the whispers of deals made and broken, fortunes won and lost. As he walked toward the fighting pits, the Heart asked, “Why am I so cold?”

He wept at that. To think of her cold and still in the catacombs, alone, broke his heart. He curled in the dirt and his jaw ached as he cried. It had long since been wired shut, the burns chafing against the wires. He’d learned to handle the pain, but the loss of Jessamine still tore him apart.

Samuel found him like that and without a word helped him back to his feet. It was the first time he really saw the old man, his rough-shaven face, the gloves he never removed, the slightest limp in his step. The boatman led him over to the ramshackle pile of boats, which he now saw was actually a makeshift shelter. Samuel gestured down to a pair of mattresses stacked on the dirt floor.

“No need to be lyin’ in the dirt,” he said.

Corvo tried to indicate he was going back inside the pub. He knew a scarce few rudimentary signs but Samuel didn’t seem to know any. At last he pulled away--suddenly realizing how comforting and warm Samuel had been at his side--and took two quick steps back.

Samuel nodded.

“It’s here if you need it,” he said softly, and went back down to the dock.

Havelock announced--primarily to Corvo and Pendleton, but all the loyalists were supposed to hear--that there needed to be a clearer way to communicate with Corvo, or, more specifically, Corvo needed a clearer way to communicate with them. The quickest way in a pinch seemed to be getting the loyalists at least somewhat fluent with signing; up until this point Corvo had been getting by with writing out notes, but when the work began in earnest he would probably need to communicate faster.

He started out with Havelock and Pendleton at a table, Samuel lurking nearby and looking uncomfortable, demonstrating a sign and then carefully printing or drawing its meaning on scraps of paper.

This was too slow, Havelock decided. Wasn’t there a type of finger-spelling that would speed things along?

Corvo had been afraid he would ask that.

For Emily’s sake he acquiesced. Words were not his strength, but he spelled everything out as best as he could. If Havelock and Pendleton noticed any spelling mistakes, they said nothing.

It was Samuel who came to him one night with a sheepish expression.

Here it comes, he thought to himself, bracing for embarrassment, but instead it was Samuel, eyes on the ground, who admitted the lessons weren’t going so well.

“Never did have much schooling,” he said. “Half the time I don’t know what you’re saying, and the rest of the time when I’ve finally got it you’ve moved on to something else.”

Corvo laughed, which hurt his throat and his jaw and his head and was probably embarrassing for Samuel. He made the sign for “same.”

It was a relief to not be the only one feeling lost. He and Samuel would meet down at the docks and go over signs at as slow a speed as they cared to. Sometimes they met just to stare out at the water. Corvo found he was glad to have found someone who didn’t care that much for words. Even before this he had little to say.


	4. Chapter 4

Emily thinks that he doesn’t know about her nighttime escapades up on the rooftops. This is partly his own fault; he’s the one who taught her to run and jump and climb without drawing notice. If it were anyone else perhaps they wouldn’t have noticed, but he’s been there.

He lets her go. He doesn’t let on that he knows. In a way it’s a relief to have her out there. It allows him to try his damnedest to form words without the risk of her walking in. No one has heard his voice in ten years; even without the damage done by Burrows and his cronies disuse has taken its toll.

When the work began in earnest Piero gave him a mask, designed to obscure his face and hold a series of telescoping lenses, and then redesigned to hold his broken jaw as still as possible.

“I had a dream,” Piero said, “that death itself was staring back at me.”

This did not comfort Corvo at all. He wondered how Piero had designed it to fit so uncomfortably close to his face. The Outsider’s work? And yet he could vividly imagine a different scene: himself, lying up in his attic, completely drained from the elixirs Piero fed him, and Piero, leaning over him, molding the mask as Corvo slept. He would not put it past him.

Piero looked at him as if he expected an answer to an unasked question. Corvo nodded his head to him and fled out to the boat.

Havelock accosted him with further instructions, and Callista with a request to protect an uncle who didn’t realize how deep he was in, and by the time he was seated in the boat and safely away on the water he was dizzy with overstimulation.

Samuel said nothing. He looked out over the water at the setting sun and seemed content in a way that Corvo hadn’t seen since before the plague.

He held the Heart in his pocket, and it whispered to him, “The boatman has a good heart, and respects you.”

The boatman had the utmost faith that the men he worked for would be able to fix everything. Corvo found himself a little envious.

Twilight settled on the water as they traveled, and Corvo held the mask in his lap. He didn’t want to put the mask on. He was used to the feeling of not wanting--his position forced him into doing a lot of things he would rather have not done. Evidently his time in Coldridge and then in the Pub had softened him up, but the idea of putting that onto his face made him feel ill.

“There it is,” Samuel said at last. “John Clavering Boulevard.”

The city looked so much worse than it had when Jessamine was alive. Even with the plague tearing apart the streets there was some order--the dead were burned, preventative measures were in place, the streets were quiet. Now the stench of decay was obvious even so far out on the water. Part of the bridge had been torn down, and a barge loaded down with the dead floated beneath it. A handful of men, too far away to tell if they were wearing uniforms, threw wrapped bundles down into the barge.

“You’ll want to avoid the checkpoints.” The waves rocked the little boat as Samuel pulled it up alongside the bank. “They call them ‘Walls of Light.’ One of the royal physician’s inventions. They say it can turn a man to dust.”

Knowing the royal physician as he did, Corvo was unsurprised. Sokolov was the kind of man who didn’t care how much damage he did, so long as all eyes were on him.

Samuel climbed to the shore and held out a hand to help him as well. Corvo took it. He stood on the shore and held on just a little too long. It was Samuel who politely extracted his hand and went to crouch near a fire pit.

Corvo stood and looked up at the city and thought of Emily. She was out there somewhere--he could only hope that she was safe--and she was alone.

“Poor Emily,” the Heart whispered. “Her childhood is lost. She has become a pawn in the games of men.”

“We’ll find her,” Samuel said softly, as if he knew.

He closed his eyes. The city smelled of death and salt and smoke. It would be hard to lose himself there.

When he opened his eyes again Samuel had stoked the fire pit and he could smell something different now. Burnt hair? A few steps closer and he saw the rat, stuck through with a stick, roasting over the fire. Samuel gave him a sheepish grin.

“Sorry, Corvo,” he said. “It’s no jellied eels, but it’s easier on Lydia if I feed myself.”

As unappetizing as roasted rat, still furry, appeared, Corvo had never felt so hungry in his life. His stomach growled, embarrassingly loudly.

Samuel fixed his eyes on the fire and turned the rat over. “There’s enough to go around if you…”

Corvo put a hand against his jaw. The break in the bone still burned.

“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.” A frown settled onto Samuel’s face, and he stared all the harder into the fire.

Later he would think of that roasted rat and smile. Offering to share it was something that would have horrified the other loyalists, but it was kinder than anything the others had done.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s not as if he’s been completely silent all these years. He can still hum and cry and make any number of wordless noises. But it  _ hurts _ . Even after all this time, or maybe because of it, the pain can still bring tears to his eyes. It reminds him of what happened to Jessamine and to Emily, and what happened to him.

Instead he signs. That also reminds him of the rat plague and how his world fell apart, but it also reminds him of quiet conversations at the water’s edge and rough, wind-chapped hands holding his own--one of the few kindnesses he had in those days before he found Emily again.

He rarely needed to explain himself to Samuel. The boatman accepted the way he could blink from the boat to the shore, and on their way to and from missions he accepted Corvo’s hand as well.

Later he would never be able to recall when or how it started, only that at some point Samuel’s right hand was in his even as he steered the boat through the waterways of Dunwall. For some reason he could fold his fingers with Samuel’s and feel his racing heart and too-quick breaths start to slow.

Samuel never said a word about it but seemed to understand. Even the day he went over rooftops to the brothel, the day he returned to find Emily safe in the boat with Samuel’s flannel on her shoulders, he helped Corvo into the boat with a silent squeeze of his fingers. For the rest of the trip he spoke mostly to Emily, answering questions that Corvo couldn’t.

And Emily, just as smart as her mother, wondered why. In the Golden Cat his silence must have been easy to dismiss--they needed to stay unnoticed, and except for that relieved, exhausted cry of “Corvo!” when he removed the mask she understood that too--but here on the water, far from anyone who’d hear, she was confused. He tried to explain to her in signs but couldn’t find the words, and finally looked helplessly to Samuel.

“He got a bit hurt,” Samuel said in his usual straight-forward way. “It’s hard for him to talk right now.”

When Callista took Emily to the tower that night Corvo found himself alone on the beach below, weeping quietly to himself. It made his face ache. It made no sense. Emily was here and safe; what more could he have asked for? But Samuel, who came to join him, didn’t comment. The two of them watched the stars come out over the river.


	6. Chapter 6

Emily still asks his advice, though she rarely needs it. She’s like her mother--smart as a whip and an excellent leader. He’s grateful that she enjoys having him around, but some days he feels she’s only humoring him. He wonders if Samuel felt the same in the years after the rat plague.

He’ll never know. Samuel died three years after Jessamine did, to pneumonia instead of an assassin’s blade. There was time to have their goodbyes and morphine to make them as painless as possible for one of them, at least, and when Samuel finally went--in his sleep; another blessing--his pale cold hand was in Corvo’s.

Some days he thinks he was a fool, opening his heart to someone after what happened to Jessamine. But then he’ll watch Emily as she works and his chest will ache and he’ll remember that love is love and when it comes for you there’s nothing you can do about it.

“She sees more than she is telling,” the Heart told him when his eyes were on Emily. He did everything he could to make what remained of her childhood a good one. But the Heart told him, year after passing year, that she was still watching. In that way she was like him.

She turned eleven. She turned twelve. Jessamine took the throne at twenty.

The audiograph was Emily’s now, as it should always have been, but Corvo couldn’t take back how he’d stood there, frozen in Jessamine’s secret room the night he returned to the tower, listening to the sound of her voice. He remembered her words--“I hope the season of rats and plague will be nothing more than a passing shadow on your early memories.” She had hoped and Corvo now wished. The Heart was right. Emily’s childhood was lost.

When she had to be out of his sight it was like the years rolled back and he was again that gaunt, hunted man in the Hound Pits. He had to let her grow up. He couldn’t stop her from experiencing the world on her own.  When he went out on missions it was like he’d never left the Pub. When she was the one who left, he would go to docks and sit with Samuel, hand touching hand, and listen to his racing heart calm once again. She would be alright. She was her mother's daughter, and her father's.


	7. Chapter 7

Tomorrow will be hard.

The memorial always is. As the years go by it seems like he is less and less able to make it through the day without feeling it all again, but for Emily it seems to get easier. He wonders how much she still remembers of her mother. Ten was so young. Fifteen years is so long. He’s forgotten so much in fifteen years.

Tomorrow will be hard. Tonight is not easy.

The sound of the grandfather clock and, in the distance, the water are the only things to be heard in Emily’s study. She is writing something and he is standing at the window, trying to slow his racing heart and wishing that this moment had come twelve years ago.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Samuel’s hand in his. His chest aches but his pulse slows.

He turns sharply and walks to his daughter’s side. She looks up as he approaches and smiles at him.

“Did you want something, Corvo?” she asks.

He does. He wants Samuel as a witness to this, as he was the first and last time. That is a foolish thing to want.

So instead he puts a hand on her shoulder and looks into her dark eyes, and, in a voice so ragged and low he barely recognizes it, he says, “...Emily?”


End file.
